The short time he spent at Solhaven Academy so far, made the social hierarchy painfully clear. The theoretical lectures in history and philosophy were Ray’s dominion. He would sit quietly in the back, the Eccentric Scholar a constant, delighted hum in his Ambient Presence, effortlessly deconstructing arguments and finding flaws in historical accounts that had gone unnoticed for centuries.

He quickly earned a reputation among the Statecraft professors as a mind of singular, baffling brilliance. This intellectual respect, however, this did not extend beyond the classroom walls. His first practical course, Body Tempering 101, was a spectacle of public humiliation.

The training hall of the College of Valor was a place of raw, kinetic energy. It smelled of sweat, steel, and sawdust, a scent that was utterly alien to the bookish Ray. The instructor, Master Hadrick, was a Valorian warrior-in-exile with a face like a scarred boulder and a belief that true worth was measured in calluses and brute strength .

His gaze swept over Ray with undisguised pity. The class was a crucible of physical agony. They ran laps until Ray’s lungs felt like they were filled with hot coals, his newly strengthened body still no match for the other initiates. They performed strength drills with iron weights he could barely lift from the ground. During grappling practice, Darian made a point of choosing him as a partner every single time, pinning him to the mats with contemptuous ease, much to the amusement of the other Valor students.

“What’s the matter, ‘Scholar’?”

Darian grunted, his knee pressing firmly into Ray’s back as he held him pinned to the mat.

“Can’t think your way out of this one? All those big words won’t help you when you’re eating dust.”

Ray’s face was pressed into the rough canvas, but his mind was a fortress of cold analysis.

Veteran: "Pathetic. The boy has all the strength of an ox and the technique of a panicked sow. His grapple is all brute force. Sloppy footwork. He's leaving his right side completely exposed. If this body had a single ounce of real strength, We could break his ribs right now."

“On your feet, Croft!”

Master Hadrick’s voice boomed across the hall, offering no sympathy.

“The ground won’t fight back for you! If you can’t stand, you can’t fight!”

Ray became their mascot, their "Ivory Tower Scholar," a living testament to the uselessness of a sharp mind in a weak body.

He endured it all. His face would be a mask of mud and grim determination, but inside, the Grizzled Veteran was a rock, its Pain Suppression skill a welcome buffer against the worst of the aches and the shame. But it was during the final exercise of the class that Ray found his secret victory. Master Hadrick had them hold a deep-breathing stance, an exercise designed to increase lung capacity and regulate the body’s energy for combat.

As Ray forced his trembling muscles into the agonizing pose, he secretly initiated Concurrent Partial Immersion, bringing the Serene Cultivator online alongside the Veteran. As he followed the instructor’s bellowed breathing rhythm, he synchronized it with the Cultivator’s Internal Circulation technique. It was a revelation.

The external, physical exercise of the class was forcing his body to open channels and pathways. The secret, internal art of the Cultivator then filled those newly opened pathways with the shimmering Aether he drew from the air. It was like plowing a field and seeding it in the same motion. A system notification, unseen by anyone else, bloomed in his mind.

Taken from NovelBin, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: SYNERGY DETECTED!]

[The techniques of 'Body Tempering 101' are compatible with the 'Crucible Path'. When performed in tandem, the host’s body is more receptive to Aetheric absorption. For several hours following each class, gains to the Constitution stat from private cultivation will be significantly boosted.]

A grim smile touched Ray’s lips, hidden by his downturned head. Let them laugh. Let them call him weak. Every moment of their scorn, every grueling exercise, was now just fuel for his real, secret growth. He had turned their training hall into his own private alchemy lab.

His second practical class was the one he had been dreading the most: Introduction to Runic Inscription. Here, his physical weakness was irrelevant. This was a test of a different kind of power, one he knew he did not possess. He walked into Master Vorlag’s workshop, the air smelling of wet clay and ozone. The stern, old mage looked at him with the same skepticism he had shown during the entrance exam.

“Today, you will attempt to inscribe the simple Rune of Illumination: ‘Lumos’,”

Master Vorlag lectured, his voice dry as dust.

“This is a test of your most basic attunement.”

“Can you command the world to listen, even in a whisper?

“Most of you, I suspect, cannot.”

Ray took his place at a workbench, his heart a steady, controlled drumbeat, thanks to the Stoic Assassin’s meditative calm. He picked up the enchanted copper stylus. He knew the theory perfectly. The Eccentric Scholar could lecture for an hour on the symbolic importance of the rune. But this was not a test of knowledge. He watched as his classmates took their turns. Eliza Vance produced a faint, wavering shimmer of light . Darian Varrus, to Ray’s surprise, created a strong, if uncontrolled, flash of blue Mana, earning a rare, curt nod from Vorlag . Then, it was his turn. Every eye in the room was on him.

“Initiate Croft,”

Master Vorlag said, his voice carrying across the silent workshop.

“You have demonstrated a certain… linguistic agility. Let us see if you possess any true substance.”

Ray took a breath and drew the rune into the clay. The shape was a perfect copy from the textbook. He focused his will, trying to reach out, to feel the ambient Mana that Gideon had described. He felt nothing. The world outside his own skin was a silent, empty void.

Scholar: "Illogical! The ambient Mana is a verifiable phenomenon! Why is there no connection? The host's physiology must be the interfering variable!"

Desperate, he tried to channel his own internal Aether. It was like trying to start a fire with water. The energy pooled within him, refusing to connect with the stylus, with the rune, with the world. The character he had scratched into the clay remained what it was: a lifeless, mundane shape. There was no light. No whisper, nothing.

Darian Varrus let out a loud, braying laugh from the back of the room.

“The great prodigy can’t even make a spark!”

He cackled.

“All those books, and for what?”

Another student joined in, their snickers filling the workshop. Ray felt a hot flush of public humiliation creep up his neck. It was a profoundly painful, deeply human failure. Master Vorlag looked at him with a dismissive, almost satisfied expression, his own prejudice confirmed.

“Intellect is not a substitute for true talent, boy,”

He said coolly.

“Return to your seat.”

That night, Ray sat in his dark, spartan room, the sting of his failure a fresh, open wound. He had faced down assassins, outwitted spies, and deceived lords. But he had been defeated by a lump of clay. He had encountered a wall that none of his existing skills could break. He couldn’t act his way through this problem. He couldn’t out-think it. It was a fundamental lack of a specific, practical skill. His frustration was a cold, hard knot. He had the knowledge, he had the discipline, but he lacked the correct tool for the job.

"Then make one.”

A voice in his head seemed to whisper. It wasn't one of his archetypes. It was Alex Chen, the actor, the artist, the man who had spent a lifetime creating what was not there. He closed his eyes and accessed the system, his mind racing. He didn’t need a swordsman or a spy. He needed an artist. A craftsman. A scribe. He focused his will, not on an existing archetype, but on the need itself. He initiated the Archetype Synthesis protocol for the second time.